Persistance and Persuasion
by Mitslits
Summary: The Splendid Angharad repeats 'we are not things' until she believes it. Then she just has to convince the others it's true.


When she was a child, the Splendid Angharad was afraid of the dark. She is still a child, but she has learned that there are worse things than the curtain of black velvet that envelopes her once the sun goes down. The worse things are what come _with_ the night, not the night itself.

She is twelve when she is taken from her mother and father, spirited away by men who look and act like ghosts. She doesn't know what awaits her until she arrives.

A man looks at her and sees something in her that she doesn't yet know exists and he feeds her honeyed words and soft touches. After the loss of her beloved father and the terror that came with the ghost men she is only too eager to attach herself to him.

Three years pass and the man's words grow less soft, his touches wandering to places that make her squirm. The first time she defies him she learns the true nature of her Immortan. The bruise his hand leaves on her cheek doesn't fade for weeks.

Soon she is joined by other girls and all of them know the Immortan the same way she does. There is Capable, the girl with the hair of fire who drapes her arms around their shoulders at night. There is Toast, the girl with brown skin who always comes back with bruises and defiance in her eyes. There is the Dag, the girl who seems to peer into the future. And there is Cheedo, the girl who always has tears in her eyes but survives anyways.

The Immortan calls them his and they believe it. They exist for him, have never existed without him. They are things.

But Splendid remembers a time when she was afraid of the dark, remembers a time when she had a mother and father, remembers a time when she belonged to no one. "We are not things", she whispers to herself, letting only the darkness hear her words. It takes them from her, hides her rebellious thoughts from the Immortan.

Eventually, she starts to believe it.

Splendid sees a woman, a strange woman. She has no hair and a mechanical arm and she drives a War Rig along the Fury Road, a brand on the back of her neck. She catches only a glimpse of her as the Immortan gives his blessing to her journey, but she can't get the image of her out of her mind. The first time they meet it is not by chance.

Splendid studies the woman's patterns, knows when she goes on supply runs and when she remains in the Citadel. She plans. One night the Immortan arrives to find her arm bloodied, five lines scored deeply into the flesh. He flies into a rage, tells her she can't damage herself, she is his property. He sends her to the Organic Mechanic. She goes. On her way back to the vault she turns, makes her way past the room she has watched Furiosa disappear into. With a cry, she falls to her knees, clutching at the bandage over her arm.

The strange woman appears in the doorway, pushing aside the canvas cloth that is her only claim to privacy. She reaches down and hauls Splendid to her feet.

"Who are you?" Splendid asks when she is standing.

The woman simply looks at her, head tilted slightly to one side, silently asking why she wants to know.

"The Immortan will want to hear of the woman who helped one of his wives", she prompts.

For a moment the silence continues and Splendid begins to doubt she will ever answer. When she opens her mouth it is only to utter one word. "Furiosa." It is the only word Splendid needs.

"No."

"The Immortan does not rule every corner of this earth. There is a safe place for us, somewhere. You're our only hope."

"Forget hope. It doesn't exist."

"No."

"They can't go on like this."

"Then he'll replace them."

"No."

"The Green Place of Many Mothers would welcome us. You said you remembered where it was."

"I told you to forget hope."

"No."

"I'm pregnant."

Furiosa stills, eyes wander down to where Splendid's hands are clasped protectively around her stomach. Her eyes are filled with pleading and that damn hope that just won't seem to go die, no matter how many times Furiosa crushes it. She sighs. "We've got nine months. I'll figure something out."

"One more thing."

"What?"

"We all go."

So it is that Furiosa finds herself chased by three war parties as a stranger sits beside her in the cab of her War Rig, the wives huddled in the backseat.

So it is that the Splendid Angharad is torn from them, thrown under the wheels, sliced open by the unfeeling metal of a scalpel.

Her words ring in the ears of those left alive. 'We are not things.'


End file.
